


Crystal Clear

by mssdare



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amnesia, Angst, Christmas, Christmas Party, Depression, Illnesses, M/M, Magic, Medication, Mental Health Issues, Reincarnation, Schizophrenia, janitor Merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-04 01:40:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5315438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mssdare/pseuds/mssdare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin's practically done for tonight, but this last cubicle needs to be cleaned, and the junior manager occupying it is still working, even though it’s way past 9:00 p.m. Merlin should probably just dust around him or ask him to move, but the problem is that talking to people tends to make Merlin lose it. And Merlin really doesn't need to fall apart before the end of his shift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crystal Clear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The Merlin Holidays Community](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=The+Merlin+Holidays+Community).



> HAPPY HOLIDAYS my sweet Merlin family!!!
> 
>  
> 
> Many thanks to my betas, enablers and Britpicker – you know who you are! :)  
> My huge thanks go also to the mods-this fest is amazing!

Crystal Clear

 

Merlin turns off the hoover and flips his hair back. It's grown too long again. He's in desperate need of a haircut but he kind of likes it this way, falling into his face and covering his eyes and cheeks. When he’s standing on the Tube with his head down and earphones in, the music creating a barrier between him and the outside world, he feels invisible and safe. Almost.

He's practically done for tonight, but this last cubicle needs to be cleaned, and the junior manager occupying it is still working, even though it’s way past 9:00 p.m. Merlin should probably just dust around him or ask him to move, but the problem is that talking to people tends to make Merlin lose it. And Merlin really doesn't need to fall apart before the end of his shift.

He thinks of it, scratching his arm absently—of how this whole thing would go. Maybe the man would call the medics and they'd dose Merlin with even more tranquilizers and antipsychotic medication than he already takes. This time they’ll never let him out of the facility. The ghost of Dr Lefay’s gentle voice rings in his ear: "Merlin, perhaps you should reconsider treatment in the Centre? There's no shame in checking yourself in, love. You wouldn't have to struggle so much. We could adjust your meds so the side effects wouldn't be so severe."

But Merlin can't stand the thought of being shut away, _imprisoned_ even, although Dr Lefay says it wouldn’t be like that. 

"Not a struggle," he’d said, even if that was a lie; it has been and still is. But he takes his medication diligently, and anyway, there’s always time to change his mind later.

He really wishes the bloke would just go home already. Merlin's so tired; he's been on his feet forever now and wants to lie down, knock himself out with sleeping pills if he can’t fall asleep on his own, and rest. He briefly considers skipping over the cubicle—it’s not like anyone would notice, is it? But he can't risk any more reprimands at this job. At any job, actually. He needs this one. Unskilled positions aren't that easy to find nowadays, what with all the migrants searching for minimum wage work. The thing is, Merlin can't really go searching for positions that would require any interaction with people. He's learned that the hard way and doesn't want a repeat of all the attention, the concerned looks on his co-workers' faces, and the gentle talk with his manager letting him go later.

So yes, he's got to ask the man to move.

He breathes in and out, and wraps the cable cord of the hoover around his fingers so hard that he cuts his circulation off for a moment. This way he can have something to focus on and distract himself from the situation. He clears his throat.

"Sir?" he says. "Um, sir, could you move for just a moment, please, so I can sweep in here?"

The guy turns around, and sure enough Merlin can't breathe, and this is exactly what he's been trying to avoid. He tugs on the hoover cord so the pain grounds him, but he's already seeing flashes of a life he knows he’s never led, places he's never been, people he's never known.

It takes all his strength not to let go and give in to the feeling, because he knows this way madness lies.

"Oh, yes. Sorry. Almost done here!" the man says, in a tone of voice that makes Merlin's insides churn, and then he stands up from his desk to flash Merlin an apologetic smile that dies on his lips the moment he takes Merlin in.

"Merlin?" he asks, somehow bewildered.

Merlin's sure he's never told him his name. He's never told anyone his name here, besides the office assistant, Gwen, who got him the job. And there’s no nametag on his brown overalls.

The guy's stare is intense in a way Merlin can't take, so he looks down and nods, pretending he hasn't noticed the weirdness of the situation. 

"I'm Arthur," the lad says, and why he’s introducing himself to a janitor, Merlin can't fathom. "Arthur," he repeats with emphasis, as if it should mean something to Merlin. And it doesn't; it can't. Merlin needs to get a grip on himself because it's just his imagination—it’s his condition, his broken brain telling him he knows this Arthur, that he's always known him. Loved him. Lost him.

Merlin can feel his hands trembling and his fingers going numb from the cord. He's dizzy with it all, but if he throws up here he'll be the one who cleans it, so he better get that fucking grip on himself.

He clears his throat again. "Nice to meet you, Arthur," he says, hoping it sounds steady and polite. And he waits for the guy to move. 

"You don't remember me, do you?" Arthur says, with an inexplicable sadness in his voice. And it makes Merlin want to cry because it's always the other way round—Merlin thinking he knows someone, being mistaken and talking to strangers. This must be some other nightmare—not recognizing people he should know. And yes, he _knows_ this Arthur. He just can’t go down this road, so he shakes his head and bites his lip, feeling his cheeks flaming red. 

"Sorry, sir." He stumbles over the last word so it comes out more like "sire," and now Merlin’s mortification reaches the point of him not caring if he loses his job. He'll just flee and be done with it. 

Thankfully, Arthur steps out of the cubicle and gestures for Merlin to proceed.

"Cheers," Merlin mutters, turning on the hoover and letting the cable loose. The blood runs back to his fingers, and it stings so much Merlin thanks the gods silently for this distraction.

He swipes the hoover’s brush under the desk, moves the chair around, then turns off the vacuum cleaner and quickly wipes the desk with a microfiber rag sprayed with disinfectant cleaner, all the while feeling Arthur hovering behind his back.

"May I get this for you?" Merlin asks, picking up an empty coffee mug from the desk. 

"Yes, thank you," Arthur says.

Merlin retreats to the kitchen, where he places the mug in the sink and then leans heavily on the counter top. He's shaking and fighting the urge to sob. He really needs to get out of here. He leaves the dirty mug in the sink, not able to clean it now, and goes quickly to the lifts and swipes his card out. 

Outside, London's streets are as crowded as always, even at this hour. Merlin puts his headphones on, throws the hood of his jumper over his head and makes his way to the Tube station. He doesn't remember getting on the train or the stations passing by, but he suddenly notices he's missed his stop and has to catch a train back so he can change to the Thameslink service. Thank fuck he's managed to get there on time because otherwise he'd need to wait over an hour for the next train.

In the car he curls on his seat, lays his head against the rail and tries to fight off the nausea gripping his insides. He's used to this, really—to the dryness in his mouth and the constant weariness, and how he feels sick and dizzy all the time. He accepts this because the alternative is so much worse. 

"I don't mind," he'd told Dr Lefay the last time they were upping his dosage. Honestly, he doesn’t mind. He just wishes he had more energy for life, because right now all he can do is crash after work, wake up (if he’s even slept), do his groceries or laundry, and get ready to work again. Just enough to pay the rent in the little one-bedroom flat he shares with Lance, with a tiny bit left over for the fancy tea he prefers.

He's cold, shivering on his seat, but it’s hard to tell whether it's the effect of the adrenaline leaving his system or if it’s actually chilly on this train. 

By the time he's home it's almost 1:00 a.m., but since his roomie is out, as always, probably on one of his trips, Merlin putters around the kitchen, makes tea, and takes it to his room where he drinks it curled up on his bed, staring at the wall.

He's replaying the meeting with Arthur over and over in his head. He's done it so many times now he's not sure what's real anymore. Did Arthur really ask him if Merlin knew who he was? Or was it something Merlin invented on the way home? Was Arthur even there? Maybe Merlin's imagination ran wild again and none of this really happened.

He hates, _hates_ , when this happens. He's been relatively good lately, taking his meds regularly, and if this encounter never happened it’s a huge setback. He wants to sleep, but at the same time he’s too tired to drift off, so he just lies on his side and waits till morning light.

 

***

 

"Merlin, please, do it for me! It'll be fun. _Please_ ," Gwen whines over the phone.

Merlin curses in his head because he knows he shouldn't have picked up his phone. It'd be so much easier to decline the invitation if he’d stuck to texting.

"I'm not even a real co-worker," he argues, knowing already that he's lost. "I just clean up after you guys."

"You are the part of the team, Merlin, just like everyone else," Gwen says, even though they both know that’s a stretch. "Besides, Arthur, the new guy from marketing, asked about you. You know who I mean? The handsome, fit blond who makes all the girls swoon?"

"Yeah," Merlin says, feeling waves of cold and sweat washing over his body. "I know who you mean." 

"See?" He can picture Gwen almost jumping and clapping with joy. "You've got to come!" 

"There’ll be a lot of people. I'm not sure that’s a great idea for me." Merlin loathes playing the crazy card, but it's all he's got left now, and besides, he really _is_ concerned about it. Crowds exhaust him, small talk makes him feel like he's suffocating, and there's always a risk of something triggering this thing in Merlin so he’ll make a complete fool of himself. Like he’ll start crying, or run away, or just—well, lose his mind for a moment.

"I'll be with you the whole time, okay? Won't leave your side unless told otherwise. Merlin, come on! You know it'll do you good to socialise."

Merlin sighs. If only everything were so easy. "Okay," he says, and regrets it immediately. He'll need to pop antianxiety pills before the party. Lots of them. And he’ll need to check his wardrobe to see if he owns anything suitable for an occasion like this. Luckily, the pub the Christmas party will be held in is more low-key than posh. And he can probably borrow something from Lance. Thank God they wear the same size.

The bright side is that he won't have to clean the place after the party like last year, when it was held in the office. He still shudders at the memory of glitter and confetti from the Christmas Crackers spread all over the office carpet. 

***

The night of the party, Merlin wishes he'd said no after all. No amount of antianxiety pills can quell his nerves, and he can't take too many because they’ll interfere with the other, more important medication that he takes to keep his demons at bay. 

He washes his hands for the tenth time and tugs on the sleeves of his shirt. The fabric is starched, and the skin around his wrists is becoming red and itchy. He knows that if he scratches it he'll only make it worse, so he uses cold water in the hope of soothing the itch. It helps a little but makes him cold all over. 

The pub is packed, not surprisingly—this being a week before Christmas—and extremely loud. Merlin has to squeeze through the line of guests drinking beer outside and yell, "Yes, C-Lot party. Yes, there’s a reservation." 

A guy in a fluorescent yellow security jacket leads Merlin inside and to the table that's already packed with people drinking beer and stuffing their mouths with crisps.

"Merlin!" Gwen exclaims, jumping to her feet and waving him over. "You came! Oh my God! Everyone, this is Merlin, the invisible wizard who magics our office into the tidy state it's in!" 

People grace him with friendly cheers and smiles, and it's actually not as bad as Merlin had imagined until he spots Arthur coming back to the table with a pint of beer in his hand. 

"Merlin! Hi!" he shouts, smiling, and there's that expectation in his gaze again, as if he's waiting for Merlin to recognise him or say something. When Merlin doesn't, there's a flicker of sadness in those blue eyes, and Merlin can't stand that he's letting Arthur down somehow. Again.

"Come sit here," Gwen says, making room for Merlin. He finds himself being squashed between Gwen and Arthur, so their thighs are pressed tightly to each other. 

"Lager?" asks someone with an impressive beard who’s sitting opposite Merlin.

Merlin shakes his head. "Water, please." His mouth is dry and his heart is pounding already. He doesn’t need to make it worse.

"Pffft!" the beard-guy says. "You're not drinking water in a pub!" 

Merlin doesn't really want to dive into the difficult explanation of his condition and why he shouldn’t drink alcohol, so he flashes the guy a tight smile and reaches for the pint, taking a cautious sip. It tastes more bitter than Merlin remembers, but it’s nice and it soothes his nerves a bit. 

One and a half pints later, Merlin feels warm and more relaxed than he's felt in ages, and he _giggles_ when Arthur says something funny—or maybe it isn't funny at all, it's just that Merlin is laughing and laughing and, oh God, he can't stop. And what if his brain is stuck on one note and he'll be giggling like this forever? What if he _never_ stops? 

He hiccups then and maybe starts crying a little, and he isn't sure if it's from relief that he's stopped laughing after all, or maybe because he wishes he'd never stopped, because then he wouldn't have to deal with anything anymore.

"Merlin, what's wrong?" 

It's Gwen asking, but Merlin shakes his head because he is fine. _Fiiiiiine_. 

"I'll go..." He waves to the direction of the door, hopefully. He can’t remember if that was the way he came in, but he’s sure there’s a door there somewhere. "…clear my head. Shouldn't drink."

He wobbles when he goes, and fuck, what will people think? One beer and he's out of it. But he's tired, so, so, so tired. And he feels sick.

"Merlin?" 

Merlin realises he's outside the pub and leaning on something soft and warm. It's not a wall, then. Definitely not a wall because this wall is moving and smells so good—like a forest, or fire and wind, and oh! Oh no. Merlin knows this scent; he's _never_ forgotten this scent. He clutches the fabric of Arthur's shirt and doesn't let him go.

"Arthur," he says, knowing that he's doomed now.

This is way worse than any of his episodes in the past. He won't believe that this Arthur isn't real, no matter how many pills he takes or how many more sessions with Dr Lefay he does. This time they'll lock him up in the Crystal Mental Health Centre, and they won't release him ever again. It's been a long time coming, though, so maybe while he's happy and still free he could perhaps take advantage of his sick imagination and let himself cherish this one last moment?

“Let me take you home, okay? Merlin?” Arthur’s voice is soft but commanding, and that more than anything else makes Merlin get a grip on himself, stand straighter, and nod his assent. “Where do you live?”

“I don’t…” Merlin says. He doesn’t want to go home. He can’t stand the thought of being alone with his thoughts.

“Okay.” Arthur wraps his arm tight around Merlin and hauls him up and then towards the cabs. “My place, then.”

Merlin’s okay with it. He’s not sure if he cares, or doesn’t care at all. He’s somewhat numb, way past being terrified. Maybe accepting his hallucinations as a part of the world is the way to go. He can make peace with his mind like that scientist—what was his name? The one played by Russell Crowe.

“Nash,” Arthur says, and Merlin realises he must have said it out loud.

“Yes.” He nods. “Him.”

The drive is long enough for Merlin to nuzzle into Arthur’s side, comforted by his solid warmth and the arm so familiar around Merlin’s shoulders.

Arthur lives in West Hampstead, which, okay, is pretty grand. Merlin wishes he could afford the rent here, even if Arthur’s place is not exactly luxurious. They climb long, narrow stairs up to the top floor and Arthur lets them both in. Inside it’s all white doors, grey walls and comfy cushions.

“Come on,” he says. “I’ll fix us something to drink.” When Merlin shakes his head, he amends, “I meant tea, not alcohol.”

Merlin sits on a high stool by the small white kitchen table and watches Arthur fill the kettle with water and retrieve mugs from the shelf right under a painting of two ripe pears. Somehow it feels wrong, as if Merlin should be the one doing it—serving Arthur. Merlin’s never pegged himself as a submissive, but perhaps there’s something in Arthur that draws it out of him.

“Milk?” Arthur asks, and when Merlin declines he places the steaming mug in front of him. “So,” he says. “Why do you think I’m not real?”

Merlin shivers. “I said no such thing.”

“No. No, you didn’t. I assumed, since you said I’m a hallucination. Which, thank you for thinking I’m too good to be true, but don’t worry, I assure you I have my flaws. And I know what you’re feeling."

"What?" Merlin asks. This conversation is so weird. He's tired and maybe still a little bit drunk, but whatever’s happening here feels more real than not, and important too—not at all as if Merlin's imagining it. 

“Because you’re too good to be true, too?" Arthur laughs. "And I feel like I’ve known you my whole life.”

Merlin takes a deep breath. He’s dizzy with it all. His whole life is exactly how long he’s struggled with his own condition. "Why would you think that?" he asks, cautious.

Arthur takes a seat opposite Merlin and looks him straight in the eye. "What would you say if I told you I thought I was the reincarnation of the legendary King Arthur?" 

Merlin, almost delirious now, wants to leap into questions, but Arthur raises his hand, stilling Merlin mid-motion.

"Crazy, right? What would you call a person who _remembers_ every little detail of their life as a prince and then king? Who remembers their own _death_? Who misses their best friend so much they think they can't function without him because it feels like their soul has been split in two?"

Merlin licks his lips. This is surely a joke. What other explanation is there? Gwen must have told Arthur about Merlin’s delusions. Someone must have hacked into Dr Lefay’s notes.

"How did you get my files?" he hisses, because he’s been betrayed. No one should take the piss out of a sick person. That’s just cruel.

Arthur has the audacity to look perplexed. "Get what?"

"My files!" Merlin stands up. He's bitter and so furious—he’s never been this angry in his life. He has to get out of here before he hits Arthur, or worse.

"Merlin, please. At least hear me out.”

Merlin’s shaking with fury, but he is curious why Arthur would go to so much trouble to gather information about him, so he sits down again.

Arthur takes a breath, sits down too, and reaches out to take Merlin’s hands in his. It’s an odd gesture, strangely intimate, but surprisingly, Merlin doesn’t feel threatened. His hands quieten, engulfed in the warm strength of Arthur’s larger palms.

“Do you remember me at all, Merlin? I know you said no, but it seems like you do.”

This isn’t funny, but Merlin’s about to get locked up again and throw away the key, so he can try to go along with this farce for a little while longer.

“Yes,” he says. It feels as if a dam has broken; the relief of admitting this out loud is so immense that Merlin almost sags in his seat.

“When you remember me—what do you recognise me as?” Arthur’s gaze is so intense it’s almost as if this is a test and Merlin must pass it.

Merlin rushes to retreat, to move his hands away, but Arthur’s grip tightens. “Tell me. Please?” His voice is commanding. Imperial.

“It’s stupid,” Merlin says finally, not looking at Arthur. “I think… I _know_ it’s not real. But I remember you as my king?” He says it like a question.

The mug of tea next to Merlin is hot, and he can feel the warmth of it on the side of his arm. He tries to focus on that feeling, not on the horrible terror of admitting to his visions.

“Yes,” Arthur says, and waits for more to come from Merlin, but Merlin can’t really give him more. He sits there, tense and silent, heart pounding hard in his chest.

Finally, Arthur sighs. “Do you have to be anywhere tomorrow morning?”

***

The bed is huge and soft, linens fresh like straight out of a luxury hotel. Merlin, undressed to his undershirt and boxer briefs, dives under the duvet, almost purring from the delicious sensation of being engulfed in such lush covers. Arthur comes back from the bathroom a few minutes later, smelling of verbena soap and mint toothpaste. He slips under the covers next to Merlin and lies on his side, watching Merlin intently.

“Did you mean it?” Merlin asks.

“Mean what?”

Merlin hopes it’s not a mistake to ask, and that he won’t hear something he doesn’t want to hear. “That you’ve missed me.”

“I’ve missed you. So much,” Arthur says. “And I didn’t even know how _much_ until I saw you in the office.”

Something hot unravels in Merlin’s chest, too huge to contain. He feels old, lost, and in despair, yet also overwhelmed with joy. He reckons he must have missed Arthur more, or for longer—it seems like it’s been ages, eons even. He reaches out to touch Arthur’s face, tracing the lines of his strong cheekbones, the stubble on his jaw line, the fullness of his lips.

“You used to have a slightly crooked tooth, here,” he says, pressing on Arthur’s mouth.

Arthur smiles and kisses Merlin’s finger. “I wore braces.”

They lie in silence, watching each other, with Merlin’s fingers lightly brushing Arthur’s face, caressing the corner of his mouth. Arthur shifts closer and rests his hand on Merlin’s hip. It sends warmth up Merlin’s body, like an electric current. He leans in and kisses Merlin once, then again, and again, as if he can’t get enough. Arthur’s lips are warm and soft, but his hand on Merlin’s hip grips him tight, setting him in place and then pushing, pressing Merlin flat to the mattress as Arthur deepens his kiss.

This Merlin can’t really remember. Did they ever do this? Does he care if they didn’t?

The kiss doesn’t seem familiar at all, but the weight of Arthur’s body on Merlin’s does, and Merlin relaxes, sighing into the kiss and opening up to let Arthur explore Merlin’s mouth with his tongue. He can feel the thick length of Arthur’s cock pressing down on him, and to his surprise Merlin can feel himself hardening too. It’s been so long since he’s been aroused, even up for a wank—the cocktail of pills dulls his senses and responses. But now it’s as if a fire has been lit inside him and he gasps into the kiss and thrusts up, meeting Arthur halfway.

“Oh God,” Arthur says, breaking the kiss, panting above Merlin. “You’re so gorgeous. Do you know how gorgeous you are?” He leans once again to kiss Merlin, hot and insistent, pressing his whole body to Merlin’s tightly.

They kiss, pushing tongues against each other, and move ever so slightly, so the friction between their bodies is both delicious and torturous. Merlin wriggles, trying to get more pressure on his cock, and Arthur moans, deep and sweet. Merlin realizes how much he’s missed Arthur’s voice—his little grunts and sighs, even the sound of his breath.

“Merlin. Merlin, wait,” Arthur says, pushing himself up, trying to get some distance between their bodies and disentangle himself from Merlin’s grip. “I’ll come if we continue.”

“Then do,” Merlin says, because he wants to see, to feel Arthur come undone like this.  

Arthur looks so beautifully dishevelled—his lips fuller and redder from all the kissing, his hair all messed up, cheeks flushed and eyes darkened with desire. Merlin doesn’t remember feeling wanted like this by anybody before. So he closes his eyes and tentatively moves his hands down Arthur’s sides, sliding them under Arthur’s T-shirt and then up, revelling in the smoothness of Arthur’s skin, the gentle play of his muscles as he tenses and relaxes beneath Merlin’s touch.

They dive back into their kissing, their hips moving in a ragged rhythm, and when Arthur gasps and stills above Merlin’s body, Merlin loses it too, not caring that they’re still clothed and that a huge wet patch is forming on Merlin’s boxers. Because, gods, does this feel good.

***

Merlin wakes to a crushing weight on his chest.

After a moment of disorientation, all the events of the previous evening come rushing back, and, oh fuck, Merlin can't breathe. He disentangles himself from Arthur's sleep-heavy limbs and slides out of bed. The wooden floor beneath his feet feels warm, but he shakes violently. He covers his mouth with his hands and shakes his head.

"God."

Arthur mumbles something in his sleep, and Merlin takes one step back, then another, until his back hits a wall.

What has he done? He's slept with someone who isn't even real, who's a projection of his own sick mind. Christ, this is so bad.

Arthur surely does look real, spread out on the bed, his chest moving steady to the rhythm of his breathing. He's even more beautiful in the morning light—his skin shining with a tinge of gold, his pale hair spread on the pillow.

It feels as if a knife is twisting hard in Merlin's heart. He presses his palms tightly to his mouth so no sounds will escape him when he’s falling apart.

Outside a lorry rattles over a pothole, its metallic sound jarring the silence of the early morning, and Arthur stirs. Merlin jumps like a startled cat and flees the bedroom, grabbing his shirt from the floor. He slides on his jeans, and with his jumper and shoes in hand he quietly leaves the flat. He dresses there, on the stairs, his hands oddly steady, as if his body is distant and belongs to someone else, someone who hasn't just broken beyond repair.

He needs air. And space. He needs his meds—he hasn’t taken them since yesterday evening, he realises, and while missing one dose doesn’t make much difference it’s better to take them regularly. He runs down the stairs, not daring to use the lift, and then through the streets to the nearest Tube station. It's only on the train that he allows himself to breathe deeply, but he won't think about last night. He can't, because if he remembers it, if he believes in any of it, he'll drown.

It's a long ride home. He wishes he could hide behind his music, but his phone is dead and all he can do is put his silent headphones on and pull the hood of his jumper as low as he can, so there’s at least a semblance of privacy between him and the outside world. By the time Merlin reaches his stop he's calmed down a bit.

He's tired, so tired again. Empty and wrung out, but that's fine. It’s better this way, with his emotions washed away until he feels nothing but the dull throb of a headache and the sticky scratch of dried come in his pants.

Merlin can't remember his childhood—that's a part of his condition—but he wishes in this moment he had someone to lean on. Lance is great but he’s almost never around, between his girlfriend and his travel for work, and it’s more like living with a ghost who comes and goes whenever he pleases than having a real roommate. Family would be so good—a mother who'd make Merlin feel safe and cared for. Like Arthur did last night, only that wasn't real. Wasn’t real, he repeats in his mind, and then for good measure he says it out loud. “It wasn’t real.”

As he reaches his flat, Merlin tries to catalogue the things that _are_ real instead—the trees lining his street that are bare of leaves, the rusted metal of the mailboxes, the crack on the wall next to the entrance door. Merlin can touch it and feel how rough it is underneath his fingertips. The brown carpet in the hall smells like cat piss and mildew, and Merlin smiles because these are the real and familiar totems of his everyday life, disgusting though they may be.

It's Saturday and still early, but Merlin’s exhausted, as if he hasn’t slept in years. He enters his room and sits down on the battered duvet on his bed, takes out his mobile, and plugs it into the charger. When it finally lights up, he scrolls to Dr Lefay’s emergency number, ignoring all the messages from Gwen. His fingers hover over the keyboard, because he doesn't want to, he hates to do it, to condemn himself, but he needs to take advantage of this rare moment of lucidity and make the decision he should have made ages ago.

 _It's Merlin_ , he types. _I think I'm ready to check in to the Centre._

He prays for no reply, wishes the text had never gone out, but at the same time he's dreading the alternative. What if no one wants him? What if he can't even count on his doctor to arrange his care for him?

The reply comes only few minutes later. _Of course, Merlin_ _._ _I'll call on Monday to arrange a place for you. Don't worry. You've made a good decision and it'll all be OK._

Merlin seriously doubts it’ll all be okay. How can it be okay when he’s cracked so completely? But he puts the phone down after sending his thanks and looks around, thinking about what he’ll need to pack and how he’ll deal with the rent and his job. He doesn’t want to leave Lance hanging, but there doesn’t seem to be another way.

He’s too exhausted to keep thinking about difficult arrangements, though, so he crawls under the covers and tries to sleep, or at least drift without being too conscious. It’s evening when he reluctantly leaves his bed to prepare a sandwich that he leaves half-eaten on the counter anyway. He thinks he should shower, but can’t really generate the energy for that. He frowns at his boxers, stained with dried come, stiff and crusty now. He wishes the come was Arthur’s. Then he’d not wash it off. If he could go around smelling like sex and Arthur for days, he would.

***

On Sunday afternoon, after zoning in and out for hours, Merlin’s startled by the doorbell. For a moment he lets it ring, thinking it must be a courier for Lance, but when the ringing doesn’t stop he drags himself out of bed, surprised he’s been lying in his hoodie with the hood on, and pads to the door to look through the peephole.

On the other side he can see Arthur, his face distorted by the fisheye of the lens, and Merlin doesn’t know what he should do. It’s like letting a ghost or a demon enter your home. He opens the door.

“Merlin? Oh, thank God you’re okay and that I managed to find you,” Arthur says. “Can I come in?”

Merlin makes room for Arthur to enter, and as they stand in the narrow hallway, Merlin wonders how he’s supposed to behave. He’s not sure if Arthur really meant what he said on Friday night, or if it was all in Merlin’s head and Arthur is just a handsome stranger from the office who just happens to share a name with Merlin’s favourite hallucination.

“I’m sorry to stalk you like this, but I was worried after you ran off in the morning, and I wanted to talk to you, so I begged Gwen for your address since you wouldn’t answer your phone.”

Right. Merlin had turned his phone off again after he’d exchanged texts with Dr Lefay. 

There's nowhere to sit and talk in Merlin's flat. The living room has been transformed into Lance’s bedroom, and the kitchen’s so small that there isn't space to fit even a stool in it. Merlin isn't keen on sitting on his bed with Arthur, so he says, "Let's go down to a café? There's this deli across the street, or we could walk to Costa on the corner?"

"Are you fine to go out, though?" Arthur asks.

Merlin rolls his eyes. "I'm not ill."

But maybe Arthur has a point—Merlin should probably at least change his clothes or do something about his hair sticking out in every direction. So he reluctantly leads Arthur to the kitchenette to boil water. “Tea? Coffee? I’m afraid I only have instant, though.”

“Tea’s fine,” Arthur says, somewhat mechanically.

Merlin dunks two tea bags in clean mugs and passes the less chipped one, with _Witch_ painted in pink and purple, to Arthur. It’s Lance’s favourite, but since he isn’t home he won’t mind Merlin using it.

"I owe you an apology, I suppose," Merlin says once they’re seated on Merlin’s bed.

"What for?" Arthur seems surprised.

"For leaving in the morning like a creep, for a start. But also for all the weird things I might have said.” It’s always hard to talk about it, but Merlin decides to push it further. “I don't know what Gwen told you, but I suffer from—well, it's complicated, but let's say it's something like schizophrenia. I have these hallucinations, like I think I remember things that didn't happen. I also have no recollection of my real life prior to a few years ago, so I get disoriented pretty often."

"You didn't believe a word I told you, then, did you?" Arthur asks instead of pursuing the subject of Merlin's condition.

Merlin stares down at his hands, tearing at an old Post-it note with a reminder to buy sugar and milk scrawled in Lance’s narrow handwriting. Or is it Merlin’s? Sometimes it’s hard to tell.

"I believed you. That’s the problem. But I'm better. I've been working hard to get where I am now. I don't want to lose it."

He'd been making progress before he met Arthur—at separating what’s real from unreal, compartmentalizing the fake memories and focusing on the here and now. And everything is getting mixed up again. "I asked to be admitted to a psychiatric centre. I’m hoping to get a place next week."

Arthur swallows, his jaw twitching as if he's tense, keeping himself in check so as not to lash out. Or maybe he’s sad or disappointed—it’s hard to tell. He reaches out and covers Merlin's hand with his, stilling Merlin's shredding of the Post-it.

"Please don't do that," he says, and for a moment Merlin thinks that it's about that stupid note. "Don't go anywhere, please, Merlin. I’ve just found you. Whatever’s bothering you, we can work it out together."

Merlin looks up and thinks that his world is shattering once again at the sight of Arthur's face—so handsome and honest and bright.

"How can we work it out?" he asks, his voice already shaking. There’s no way for this to work, even if Arthur shares Merlin’s delusions.

"One memory after another," Arthur says fiercely, tightening his grip on Merlin's fingers. "Just... Just stay. I've been looking for you for so long. I’ve missed you. Your bravery, your humour, your goodness, and your magic too."

"My what?" Merlin can't believe his ears.

"You don't remember that either?" There's a distinct tone of betrayal in Arthur's voice, and suddenly Merlin does remember this so well.

He closes his eyes and lets some of it rush back to him. First the smell of the forest, ancient and deep, so different from the modern, shallow woods. Then the chill of winter clinging to the stone walls of Camelot, the sound of hooves on the road, the feeling of chainmail underneath his fingers. And finally, the connection to the earth, to every living soul, to the life force in the air, plants, water, soil and fire. _The magic._

And with that knowledge comes the explanation.

"Oh, my God." Merlin’s voice cracks now, and he turns his hands, gripping Arthur's hard in return. "It's really you. You’re here. You’ve come back."

When Arthur smiles, it's as if someone has lit a fire in Merlin's chest.

"All those years... and to think I did this to myself." He shakes his head with disbelief.

"You did what?" asks Arthur.

It feels awful to admit it, as if he’s defied Arthur, betrayed him in the most vicious of ways. "I erased my memory.”

Arthur’s eyes are impossibly blue when he asks, “Why?”

Arthur deserves an explanation, but how to explain the inexplicable? Merlin owes it to Arthur, though. After all, he’s abandoned Arthur by forgetting. “I’m so sorry. But it’d been so many years, Arthur. I waited for so long.” He doesn’t want to sound bitter but somehow he does. “I wanted to die, but I couldn’t. I thought 'no more' one day, and I’m not quite sure, but I guess I must have wiped my memory clean with a spell? I just didn't know it'd work quite like _this_." He gestures vaguely around himself—to the worn out covers on his bed, the shelves bent under the weight of old books, the dirty windows.

"That sounds so much like you, you idiot." Arthur smiles with a fondness that makes Merlin’s cheeks redden. He reaches for him, tugging on Merlin’s hand.

It’s a weird half-embrace, half-handshake. Something a bit awkward, yet good and soothing at the same time.

“So you remember it all now?” Arthur asks, his breath tickling Merlin’s skin on the exhale.

Merlin considers this for a moment. Some recollections are sharp and bright, crystal clear in his mind, some are more dulled, as if dusted over by years, and some things feel _there_ but not accessible, like a dream you really want to recall, but the more you try the more it eludes you.

“No,” he says unhappily. “Only some of it.”

Arthur’s grip on him tightens for a second and then he kisses Merlin’s hair at the nape of his neck. “That’s okay. It’ll come back.”

Merlin wants to believe him so much.

“How was it for you?” he asks.

Arthur ponders that for a moment. “I guess… I always just knew? I kind of grew into it and the memories of my previous life grew along with me.”

It’s good to sit like this in the silent flat, in Arthur’s arms—warm and safe and just fitting into the world again. But as much as Merlin desires it, they can’t stay like this forever. So he shifts slightly and Arthur sniffs at his neck again and then grunts with exaggerated disgust.

“What?” Merlin asks.

“You _smell_ , Merlin.”

Merlin really doesn’t know if he should be offended, ashamed or amused at that. He guesses Arthur might be right—he does feel quite grim after the night in the pub, then all the groping, and then sleeping in his clothes. He disentangles himself from Arthur’s arms, surprised at the dampness on his own face. He smiles against the moisture in his eyes.

“Will you wait?” He gestures to the bathroom. Even now, after remembering most of what’s happened, he’s terrified that perhaps he’s still imagining _all of it_ and Arthur will vanish the moment Merlin loses sight of him.

“Of course,” Arthur says, lying down on Merlin’s bed with his arms outstretched behind his head. “Take your time. Then we could maybe go and grab something to eat?”

Merlin smiles, nods and skips to the bathroom. His reflection in the mirror looks elated, a bit psychotic even, with his eyes shining, pupils dilated and cheeks flushed. He sheds the clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor, and jumps under the spray of water. As he stands there, lathering up, a cold dread starts creeping in on him. He has no proof that the Arthur who came here is even real. He remembers most of his life now, he reckons, but what if it’s all an illusion? How can he know for sure? He could call Gwen maybe, ask her to talk to Arthur and confirm what Arthur’s saying, but then—wouldn’t it be betraying Arthur’s trust? Exposing them both? Better not, then.

He gets out of the shower, his teeth chattering, and before he even dries himself with a towel he cracks the door to see if Arthur is still there or if he’s vanished like a ghost. But Arthur’s lying on the bed, with his socked feet on the duvet, tapping away on his phone, and Merlin thinks that this is something he’d never, ever imagine. He’d expected Arthur to emerge from the cold, misty waters of Avalon in his armour and red cape, ancient and cold like an old statue. He always imagined how he’d need to teach Arthur the ways of the modern world—like, “Yes, Arthur, this is something like an ice cave where you put your food to prevent it from spoiling,” or “No, Arthur, it’s a motorcycle, not a ‘magical metal horse.’” Instead, here Arthur is—a marketing manager, proficient in all the modern ways of communication, and so… normal. And it’s Merlin who struggles with the world.

He needs to learn this new Arthur, get to know him, and find the old one from Merlin’s memory underneath the layers. And he needs to learn to trust himself again, to stop second-guessing his every thought and conviction, and to accept that his memories aren’t madness.

Merlin inhales and keeps the air in. He’s slightly dizzy, and his heart is pumping a bit too fast.

He looks at the box with his most important medicine, wondering idly why does it seem to be way more full than he remembers, and he tries to decide if he should or shouldn’t take it. He deliberates all the pros and cons for a few moments and finally cracks the pill in two, swallowing half with tepid water straight from the tap. He guesses he shouldn’t drop his meds all at once, unless he wants to experience some serious side effects.

He’s almost ready to leave the bathroom, wrapped in a towel and mostly dry, when it hits him.

“Why are you here?” he asks, standing next to Arthur, who looks up, confused.

“I wanted to make sure you’re fine and now I’m taking you to dinner?” he asks.

Merlin flails, almost losing the towel. “No. No, Arthur.” He jumps on the bed, not caring if the towel drops, leaving him naked. “I mean, you should return when Albion’s need is greatest.”

Arthur sits up, serious and calm. “And weren’t you in the greatest need?”

***

Merlin’s hair is still damp from the shower when Arthur combs the tangled strands with his fingers. It’s good to lie with Arthur and kiss, slow and sweet, unhurriedly, as if there are millenniums awaiting them still. There’s this energy inside of Merlin; it’s not just a zest for life, it’s something bubbling hot and warm that needs to be set free or he’ll burst. Light sparkles in the room, and Merlin laughs when magic swirls around them in happy circles, delighted to be liberated again.

“Make me a dragon,” Arthur says with a smile, and watches in awe as Merlin forms one out of coloured light. Arthur kisses Merlin’s hands. “We won’t need anything else. Just us and your magic. We could walk out of here right now and go anywhere we wanted, Merlin.”

And Merlin thinks what a great idea that is, and how great it’ll be to have Arthur just for himself this time. To just… be.

He’ll leave a note for Lance, and send a text to Dr Lefay, and just go. Work can do without the two of them. Gwen will take care of his things.

***

Afternoon sun emerges from behind the heavy clouds that have been hanging over the city, and Merlin squints in the light, relishing the scarce warmth, stretching inwardly like a ghost of a cat. He’s always loved the sun and the energy it gives.

Arthur’s footsteps match Merlin’s so well that it feels a bit like Merlin’s walking down the street alone after all, like he’s some lunatic talking to himself and waving his hands in agitation. But their shoulders keep bumping into each other, and this Merlin cherishes—this constant reminder that Arthur is here after all: soul and flesh.

Merlin grabs Arthur’s hand and squeezes it, smiling when Arthur returns the firm grip. It’s reassuring.

There’s so much pain and regret buried in Merlin’s memory—of the past, years and years of Merlin drifting, waiting—that for a brief second Merlin considers forgetting again. But then, some memories, as painful as they are, are treasures.

Merlin tightens his grip on Arthur’s hand and keeps walking.


End file.
